You left him, and he's still so committed to you. Look at what he's doing for you. Selfish. Overdramatic. You ruin everything, don't you?
Then I stop, because that guilt—my mom's voice—doesn't own me anymore. I'm not allowing myself to feel guilty for doing what I needed to do, for my boys, and for myself.
Because Atlas told me that was the wake-up call he needed, and I trust his words more than I trust my guilt.
Atlas opens his mouth to speak, but I just smile and gently cut him off.
"We have a family therapy appointment. On Monday. It's at 5," I say simply. "I want you to come."
Atlas' looks at me stunned for a long moment, before he smiles, wide and true and happy.
The sight knocks the air from my lungs. I haven't seen him that happy in so long.
There he is. There's my Atlas.
That makes me babble, "If that time doesn't work for you, I can reschedule to a new time—"
"I will be there. No matter what, I will be there. I'll put it in my calendar now."
I tell him the address, the time, and the doctor's name, too, and watch as he meticulously adds it to his phone's calendar.
Then I see him open the garage's calendar on his phone and block off the time from 4 on in his book, so he can't be scheduled for anything.
My chest warms as he double-checks, locks his phone, and turns to me.
"Okay."
"I can't believe you..." I trail off, realizing that I'm still holding his hand.
But I don't let go. Not yet.
Atlas squeezes my hand.
"I got your name touched up. And the boys' names," he admits, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm yours, Wendy. I just forgot that for a while. I won't ever forget it again."
My throat is tight, my chest is tight, and my stomach is fluttering.
I just smile and snark, "Better not."
Atlas and I smile at each other, and I scoot on the bleacher seat a little closer to him. He does the same, until our sides are pressed against each other.
It feels easier to breathe.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Wendy
February
I keep my eyes on Atlas as our lawyers speak to each other, discussing the spousal support amount, the child support, and the logistics of this separation that I've almost called off about five times now.
We sit in this conference room in Imani's office, a large, glass table separating Atlas and me as we sit next to our lawyers, who speak for us.
Atlas insisted on keeping the separation—for now, which almost made my heart stop dead in my chest when his lawyer responded to Imani. Then he explained it to me.
He wants to earn me back, but he hasn't earned it yet.
My trust and faith in him have grown exponentially, a whole explosion in the last month from his steadfast presence in our lives.
